More Than A Woman
by The Quell
Summary: What if the classic Mary Sue archetype we've all come to know and love was in fact a Texan transvestite named Steve...?
1. The Summer Rose

A/N: WARNING! Legolas Romance of a less-than-usual nature! Expect angst, innuendo, and idle defilement of canon. Rampant Mary Sue-isms. Mild homosexual references. Cutlery fetishes. Distinct probability of SLASH, but nothing explicit or liable to induce vomiting. For you flamers out there, if any of these things (or just poorly written parodies in general!) offend you, don't say you weren't warned! Wow. Did I just flame _myself_? This does not bode well...

R & R is more than welcome! In fact, it's practically pleaded for, even if you only wish to comment on the state of my psychiatric health!

Disclaimer: Middle-Earth, and all names, places and characters therein belong to Tolkien - _not_ to me. And much as this distresses me, I'll admit that its probably for the best.

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**Summer-Jayne Sawyer, the Unusual Mary-Sue**

Chapter One - The Summer Rose

By the misted window she stood, like a fair vision from vanished years beyond remembrance. Her skin a haze of flawless caramel, her eyes huge and dark as the rayless depths of the ocean, her hair a sleek length of ebony, richer than a wealth of liquid diamond, blacker than the darkness between the stars, sweeter than the cloying kiss of love, and frightfully realistic as nylon weaves go. She might have been perfection's own self, the very paragon of femininity, but for the fact that she was a man. A man named Steve.

A low roll of thunder erupted from a bruise-dark sky, as the first rain began to fall. Seventeen-year-old Steven Sawyer surveyed the night-swept world beneath him, pouting for all he was worth. Dusk lay heavily draped across the narrow streets of his hometown, leeching light and life from the towering heavens, and seeming to permeate the very core of his being. Yes, he was depressed. How could he be otherwise? His parents were away for the weekend, and while this in itself was a distinct cause for celebration as it meant he could behave - and dress - however he pleased, he was beginning to feel lonely. His best friend Myra hadn't spoken to him in days. The two of them had fought, once again, over a man - a young oaf named Zachary, to be precise, with pierced ears and a frankly alarming taste in after-shave. Still, he had a motorcycle and cheekbones to die for, so that was settled. But apparently, Zachary preferred girls _without _male reproductive organs. The fascist. Myra and Steve had exchanged many a bitter word on the subject, and had even resorted to hurling novelty garden implements at one another. And following a series of hissy-fits rating at approximately 6.4 on the Richter scale, the two had parted on very sour terms.

Steve drew the curtains mournfully, and crossed his darkened bedroom with immaculate poise. The folds of his red satin ballgown trailed delicately across the floor - the frock was his mother's, and fitted him rather well. He was a little flat-chested, admittedly, but it was nothing two sizeable handfulls of tissue paper couldn't remedy. He sat now forlornly upon his bed, his vision blurring with unshed tears as the image of Myra in Zachary's arms reared its odious head to haunt him. No, he must not weep! He hadn't got where he was today without learning to avoid the hazard of smudged mascara. And with that, Steve gazed up into the only face beloved enough to dispel the dark clouds of sorrow from his heart.

"Orli..." He breathed huskily, staring up at the exquisite visage that covered practically every spare inch of his bedroom. Sometimes, Orlando Bloom's smoldering brown eyes were his only solace. Steve lay back and closed his eyes. He began to doze, yet the heightening storm darkened his dreams. The thunder seemed to reverberate through his skull, and the lightning to sear his lidded eyes. And then, a single shard of hot white energy seemed to strike him alone, invading body and soul, and lingering unwavering within him like a pillar of pure, blinding agony. It tore his eyes open in a blast of argent fury and caused him to jolt fiercely into a sitting position.

Nothing could have prepared Steve for what met his gaze.

He awoke to the full glare of noon, the eye of the sun squinting through a gap in the twisted canopy of branches above him. Shapely grey trees reared up on either side, and he felt dwarfed by their monstrous size. Yet every bough and twig was elegant, finely etched and flawless, and bowing gently in a fragrant breeze. Steve gaped in wonder at his surroundings, suspecting he had just taken leave of any senses he may ever have possessed, and had finally gone utterly, incurably mad. Well, he supposed, as forays into insanity go, he'd heard of worse. Madness had a bad reputation, sure, but it looked fairly idyllic from where he was sitting...

"Who goes there?" Came a sudden voice from behind. Steve drew himself to his feet, and turned with remarkable grace. Two tall, fine-featured men with long raven hair stood before him, tree-shadows spidering across their pale faces. They were practically identical in appearance, except that the foremost of the two - quite unsettlingly - wore a large silver spoon in the top button-hole of his shirt. Both were cloaked and hooded in soft woodland hues, and Steve fleetingly noticed that they also sported some rather fetching brown leather knee-boots. All in all, the two strangers were positively edible-looking...although the one with the spoon was a little on the sullen and pasty side.

"I..I..." Steve stammered in awe. He had suddenly deduced, from the strangers' rather ridiculous ears, that before him stood two Elves. Yet his amazement was promptly overshadowed by an acute stab of embarrassment as he noted the stunned astonishment in the two Elven faces before him - both pairs of clear grey eyes were practically on stalks as they glanced over his face and apparel. Steve shifted his feet self-consciously.

"Hail. I am Elrohir, son of Lord Elrond Halfelven of Imladris," the be-spooned Elf declared flatly, before Steve could muster the wits to string a coherent sentence together. "This is Elladan, my brother. Declare yourself this minute! We permit no dratted enemies to roam these lands." Elrohir's blunt greeting caused Steve only further confusion, and he gaped blankly at the Elf. _Elrond of Imladris? _The name was oddly and eerily familiar.

"O beauteous maiden!" Elladan wailed tragically, abruptly breaking his silence and falling to one knee. "I beg thee, grant me the gift of hearing thy name, but once, from thy heavenly lips! Ai! Thy radiance sets my very soul aflame, my heart a-flutter, my toes all a-tingle..."

"Heavens to Betsy!" Elrohir muttered irritably, glaring at his howling sibling. "Is it any wonder the ladies of Imladris have taken to carrying steel-studded maces about their persons lest you attempt to serenade them?"

"Forgive my brother's churlish ways, sweet Lady," Elladan retorted sniffily, surging to his feet and regarding Elrohir with a truly alarming pout. "He has no eye for a fair damsel, being rather more fond of kitchen utensils than he ought to be."

"Why, I...oh." Elrohir blustered, clutching his spoon discreetly to his chest. "That's entirely beside the point. Now tell us your name at once, madam, or I shall be most...cross." He declared with a curt nod.

"Summer-Jayne," Steve blurted, moved by a sudden inspiration. "I'm Summer-Jayne Sawyer." He was barely aware of the words until he had uttered them. He had instinctively assumed the most convincing female tone he was capable of, and - for reasons best known to himself, which in truth even he didn't actually know - a slightly botched Texan accent. Well, it was a little late to question it now.

"Summer-Jayne Sawyer..." Elladan exclaimed gleefully, the words sounding utterly ludicrous on his Elven lips. "Summer-Jayne Sawyer! Ah, Lady! Thy name is like nectar to my ailing spirit! Balm to my weary mind! Sweet wine to my...lonely stomach! I feel I could fly! Fly!"

"Oh shut _up _you braying ninny! She could be a spy or anything!" Barked Elrohir, cuffing his brother sharply across the ear. Elladan flinched, and scowled venomously at Elrohir.

"Are you a friend to the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth?" Elrohir demanded, fixing Steve with an intense glare and suddenly brandishing his spoon in a most disturbing fashion.

"Yes?" Steve answered uncertainly, after a long and painful pause. His mind was almost blank with disbelief. _Middle-Earth!_ Yes, safe to say, he was having a fairly weird day.

"Oh goody!" Elladan squealed, "Elrohir, lets take her to meet daddy! Oh, _do _lets!"

"Oh fine, if its what the lady wants!" Elrohir grouched, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "It's not as if we have anything better to do, what with that war against the Dark Lord Sauron, and laundry duty, and that blasted squirrel gnawing away at daddy's favourite bench..."

"Marvellous!" Elladan clasped his hands in joy, beaming at Steve. "Oh, you'll simply adore daddy! He's a funny old stick...a bit grumpy and prone to prophesying the apocalypse...and his carpentry isn't up to much at all, but he's awfully nice really. You'll come with us, Lady, won't you?"

Steve nodded shakily, unsure of how to reply. He didn't want his limited knowledge of Elvish etiquette showing him up now of all times. His mind reeled with confusion. The very ground beneath his feet seemed unstable, although that might possibly have been due to his diamante stilettos. He lurched unsteadily across the rugged terrain, aided by a slightly bemused Elladan, as Elrohir turned and marched off into the thick of the trees, glowering and grunting with every stride.

"Eru knows what daddy will make of her." The sour Elf murmured under his breath, as the three of them passed beneath the swaying shadows of the trees.

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A/N: Oh golly gosh whatever will happen next! Is Rivendell quite ready for the arrival of Summer-Jayne Sawyer? Will Legolas (or Aragorn? or Elrond? or, better yet, Bill the ill-fated baggage pony?) succumb to her womanly wiles? Will she ever acquire sensible footwear? Will the author wake up tomorrow in a nice padded cell? ("click" "whirr")Find out soon! 


	2. Hell Hath No Fury

Chapter 2 - Hell Hath No Fury Like A Carpenter Scorned

There are few experiences more bizarre than teetering across three miles of Elven woodland in diamante stilettos and a ball-gown alongside a grinning imbecile of an Elf and his spoon-fixated brother. The next few hours of Steve's life were one long, painful discovery of this fact, and suffice to say it was an experience he was in no particular hurry to repeat. Elladan had taken quite a shine to him, and proceeded to spout truly distressing love-poetry for the duration of the journey. He even broke into song on several occasions, and Elrohir's comment about steel-studded maces was beginning to make more and more sense. Elrohir himself did very little but twitch and grumble to his spoon in muted tones and cast his two companions the occasional scowl. By the time they drew close to Rivendell, Steve was practically ready to bludgeon them both.

However, causing Steve even more confusion was the fact that he appeared to have stumbled into Middle-Earth. _Middle-Earth_, of all places! He suddenly wished he had read the Lord of the Rings, or, for that matter, paid attention to something other than Orlando Bloom during the films. He hadn't heard of these two Elves, Elladan and Elrohir, though he had a fairly good idea why they might have been left out of things. Still, his memory of the plot was so incomplete that he couldn't actually remember any of the characters' names. Except Legolas. Obviously.

By the time the three of them reached Rivendell, Steve had managed to glean a little information concerning Lord Elrond. He was apparently thousands of years old, widely acclaimed as Middle-Earth's wisest counselor and healer, and one of the most revered figures in Elven history. But he was first and foremost a failed carpenter, and exceedingly bitter about it. Steve noticed that ramshackle wooden benches and splintered carvings crouched sinisterly in the darkened corners and secluded nooks of Rivendell, as testament to the Elf-Lord's chosen profession. They seemed incongruously grotesque amid the graceful, sweeping architecture of the Elven dwelling.

"Whatever you do, don't make fun of the gazebo," Elladan warned Steve as they passed beneath a pair of breath-takingly ornate double doors and entered the main hall of Rivendell. Steve nodded, wincing at the sight of a particularly unpleasant trestle-table with nails protruding from its surface like a hedgehog's spines. He paused to stare at the horrible thing, oblivious to the sudden appearance of a tall and stately figure at the doorway directly before them.

"Daddy!" Elladan squealed with delight. "We're home!" The excitable Elf charged over to his father and caught him in a fierce embrace.

"Indeed." Elrond answered distinctly, extricating himself from his son and smoothing down his ornate robes with an air of ruffled dignity. The Elven lord was pale and imposing, his long raven hair drawn back to accentuate the sharp contours of his face. He nodded curtly to each of his sons, then turned to Steve with a shadow of mild curiosity touching his austere features.

"Lord Daddy of Imladris," Elladan declared with attempted dignity, "May I introduce Lady Summer-Jayne Sawyer. We found her in the woods, isn't she simply scrumptious!"

Lord Elrond, already frowning at being addressed as 'Lord Daddy', cast a grave eye across Steve's face and apparel. Steve flushed, and lowered his eyes to the polished floor. Admittedly, his disguise had been sufficiently cunning to bamboozle Elladan and Elrohir, both of whom barely had IQ's to rival their shoe sizes, but whether it would stand up to the scrutiny of Lord Elrond was another matter altogether.

"Welcome to Imladris." Elrond declared formally, inclining his head without removing his sharp gaze from Steve's face. "Here you may find rest and shelter. Should you wish it, I grant you leave to abide here in my halls for as long as you will. However…" and here he paused, as though unsure of how to phrase his thoughts, then continued slowly, "I would ask what business brings you to these lands. Whence came you? Do you journey this realm alone, and if so, for what purpose?"

"I am lost," Steve whimpered plaintively, at last beginning to get the hang of his high-pitched Southern drawl, "I am from far away. How I came to be here, I – I simply do not know." He wished furiously he had a more plausible story, but he didn't know nearly enough about the history and geography of Middle-earth to formulate a convincing lie. Lord Elrond raised a cynical eyebrow, and seemed about to make a cutting remark before Steve interrupted him, struck by a sudden idea.

"Why sir, I do declare!" he exclaimed huskily, turning to the hedgehog-reminiscent trestle-table he had been nauseated by only minutes before, "What a simply – _exquisite_ – table! Why, I'd heard that these halls were beautiful beyond the dreams of mortals, but never did I think to behold an object of such magnificence in my lifetime! It's so innovative, so unique, so beautifully…_knobbly_. Who crafted this heavenly thing?" Wincing inwardly at his rather crude imitation of Lord-of-the-Rings-esque speech (not particularly helped by his rather sub-standard Texan accent), and hoping his true thoughts concerning the reprehensible piece of carpentry were not as utterly transparent as he feared, Steve turned to smile sweetly at Lord Elrond, whose alabaster face had turned a most curious shade of magenta.

"Oh well," the Elf-lord muttered, trying to quell the coquettish grin beginning to spread itself across his blushing face, "It's…well, it's…since you should ask…it's one of mine, actually."

"Surely you jest!" Steve exclaimed, his dark eyes wide with affected surprise. Lord Elrond tittered, and waved a coyly dismissive hand at Steve.

"Well, no I…I confess I _have_ been hailed as a leading exemplar of the Elvish architectural movement, but well, I don't like to boast. Naturally, my creative flair is simply too _ground-breaking_ for some," he paused, sniffing bitterly, "but at least there are some folk still living who appreciate the true value of art. Ooh I say! Would you care to take a gander at the gazebo? I crafted it myself from toothpicks and troll-spittle, you know…"

"That's _delightful_, daddy, truly, but oughtn't I to escort Summer-Jayne to her rooms now?" Elladan suggested gingerly, clamping his hands over Steve's shoulders and edging him towards a door to their left. Elrohir also seemed to be pondering escape, and was shuffling off in the opposite direction, clasping his spoon tighter than ever.

"Well, _really_!" Elrond thundered, his already flushed face suddenly deepening in colour until he resembled a simmering beetroot. "I am ashamed! _Ashamed_ to call you my sons! Where is your appreciation for fine art, you putrescent dunderheads! but nay, I forget! You'd rather be off pursuing fair maidens or…or…_items of cutlery_." He finished in disgusted tones, whereupon Elrohir cleared his throat, slinking guiltily towards a side door and muttering something about going to bed.

"_Bed_, indeed!" Lord Elrond boomed, not to be dissuaded. "It is barely three o'clock in the afternoon! And unless I'm very much mistaken, that door leads to the kitchens…"

"I didn't say _my_ bed…" Elrohir murmured creepily, his eye twitching as he caressed the spoon at his chest in a most distasteful way and scuttled out of the hall before his father could prevent him.

"Ghastly," Elrond sighed, shuddering, "what ghastly offspring to call my own."

"Yes, we _are_ most frightful" Elladan agreed offhandedly, "but father, Lady Summer-Jayne is much wearied from her travels. Surely you wish to detain her no longer…"

"Oh, very well!" Elrond snapped at his son, "You may go!"

"It is an honour to have met you, Lord," Steve lied, curtseying to the frowning Elf, "and I would dearly love to see your gazebo, once I am rested…such talent as yours is rare indeed." He thought it best to compliment the Elf-lord as extravagantly as possible, as it had worked wonders for him so far. Sure enough, Lord Elrond's expression softened at Steve's words, and he smiled indulgently as Steve was ushered from the room by Elladan.

"Seldom have I encountered a maiden so discerning and gracious," Elrond responded, beaming, "or indeed– if I may say it – so beauteous. I look forward to our next meeting." Turning to catch a final glance of Elrond, Steve was left in some doubt as to whether the Elf shared in Elrohir's unfortunate tendency to twitch, for otherwise, he realized with a shudder, the venerable Lord of Imladris has just winked at him.


	3. Luncheon in the Gazebo

**Chapter Three - Luncheon in the Gazebo**

The lawns and gardens of Rivendell glimmered like a wealth of strewn jewels in the noon sun; lush and opulent flowers weltered in the sparkling heat-haze, rivalled in depth and richness of hue only by the towering, azure heavens above. It seemed odd to Steve that amid a scene of such staggering beauty, there should crouch the single most horrific edifice it had ever been his misfortune to encounter. Lord Elrond's infamous gazebo squatted like a dark, debauched mushroom at the water's edge; a distinct and wholly unwelcome blot on the fabulous landscape.  
"Ah, yes. I confess that on occasion, my own skill dumfounds even me." The Elven Lord commented queitly, evidently mistaking Steve's horrified silence for a kind of reverent awe. With that, he began to stride off in the direction of his unsavoury creation, beckoning for Steve to follow.  
"I am most honoured that you consented join my kin and I for luncheon," Elrond remarked curteously to Steve as the two of them approached the alarming structure. It was even more hideous at close quarters; all jagged corners, and splintering chunks poking out at strange angles. The whole thing seemed held together by luck alone, and given that it slanted at least forty degrees to the left, looked in danger of collapsing in upon itself at any moment.  
"The honour is mine." Steve murmured faintly, to Elrond's obvious approval. The Elf Lord bowed deeply as they reached the entrance.  
"After you."

As he entered, his feet causing the floor to creak ominously, Steve noted the large table set in the midst of the dwelling, where two figures already sat in silence. One was undoubtedly Elladan, whom Steve had spent much of the previous evening attempting to avoid. However, not to be dissuaded, the young Elf Lord had seen fit to lurk beneath Steve's window sometime around midnight, howling a selection of Elvish ballads (although whether or not 'bay leean mine flubbadidubb' was indeed an ancient Sindarin love song, Steve was doubtful) in an attempt to serenade him. This had continued far into the night, until an irate inhabitant of one of the upper floors had mercifully curtailed the alarming performance by aiming a brass chamber pot at the young Elf-Lord's skull. Judging from Elladan's heavily bandaged head, and uncharacteristically surly expression, the missile had not missed its mark.  
Steve lowered himself awkwardly into a chair as far from Elladan as was possible, and found himself opposite an Elven maid of quite startling beauty. Her face was winter-pale and flawless, her hair a tumbling mass of raven in which tiny silver jewels twinkled like dashes of moonlit frost. Steve smiled awkwardly in greeting, but the girl merely regarded him silently with her large, wondrous grey eyes.  
"Ah, you haven't met my daughter," Elrond remarked to Steve, inclining his head towards the beautiful maiden, "Lady Summer-Jayne Sawyer, may I introduce Lady Arwen Undomiel of Imladris."  
"Be careful, Lady," Elladan warned Steve, ignoring his father's quelling glare. "She bites."  
"It is an honour, my Lady." Steve said graciously, rising from his seat and curtseying before Arwen, hoping desperately that this was the correct thing to do.  
"I say, you're odd-looking aren't you. Are you _foreign_?" The girl demanded suddenly, her eyes glinting.  
"Now then, sugar-plops," Lord Elrond interjected genially, smiling indulgently at his daughter, "we've talked about this, remember? No racial intolerence during lunch."  
Arwen said nothing, but narrowed her beautiful eyes at Steve, bared her teeth and began to growl in a truly alarming fashion. Steve was truly thankful for the momentary distraction provided by Elrohir, who skulked suddenly into view, glancing shiftily at his dining companions before sloping into a seat, grumbling to himself.  
"Let luncheon commence!" Lord Elrond declared jovially, and a slender serving maid appeared as though on cue and served them each a healthy portion of tomato soup. They began to eat in silence. Steve could not help but stare momentarily at Elrohir, who, having evidently decided that the spoon provided was too precious an instrument for the task of shovelling food, had covertly tucked it into his sock, and was now proceeding to eat by dipping his fingers into the steaming soup - wincing and yelping as he did so - and licking them clean. His kin took no notice, indicating (rather disturbingly, Steve thought) that such behaviour was not unusual.  
"Do you care for embroidery, Lady Summer-Jayne?" Elrond inquired after several minutes of silence, "My little Arwenny-boo is terribly fond of it. The only one of my children to inherit my artistic flair, I must say!" He either did not notice, or chose to ignore, the snorts and sniggers of his offspring at this point, and continued to gaze at his daughter in a misty-eyed fashion. "Ah yes, she can even sew with her feet you know! Such skill! She's always to be found in her chamber, embroidering away..."  
"When she isn't drowning kittens...setting fire to my hair...depositing mysterious corpses in the well..." Elladan mumbled.  
"Silence, you great mook!" Elrond snapped, aiming a bread roll at his son's already injured head, "Your sister merely has an artistic temperament!"  
"Daddy, she's a homicidal maniac, and the sooner you realise it the bet-"  
Elladan didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, as Arwen had suddenly sprung from her seat, hissing and screeching like a cat, with the apparent aim of impaling her brother with a fork.  
"She's a spirited little thing," Elrond chuckled, watching his wrestling offspring. Yet the tussle was immediately disturbed by the arrival of a tall, grey figure at the gazebo's entrance. A thunderous old man with a prominent nose, and great bushy eyebrows that stuck out beneath the rim of his pointed grey hat stood regarding the company in silence.  
"One minute..." Elrond sighed wearily to the old man. He heaved himself to his feet and attempted to extricate his flailing daugher from his - now whimpering - son. Having only just prevented her from skewering Elladan's eye with her fork, he ushered, or, more accurately, dragged, Arwen back into her seat and patted her lovingly on the head. Elladan's bloodshot eyes brightened at the sight of the new arrival.  
"Gandie!" He chirped.  
"Hmph," the old man mumbled at the young Elf Lord, then turned to Elrond, "Lord, there are certain matters I would discuss with you. I am most troubled."  
"Yes, those squirrels _are _becoming a bit of a pest aren't they..." Elrond began distractedly, but the old man interrupted.  
"_No_, Lord Elrond!" He insisted sharply, "I refer to the matter we discussed last night; there is great evil abroad in these lands, and we are scarcely prepared to combat it! Another of our scouts returned at the break of dawn, reporting that there has been no sighting of the Dunadan and his party. Are there no others who can be dispatched for the search? There are too few as it is, too few..."   
"I can spare no others. There are few indeed suited to the task, as you well know, Gandalf. It requires exceptional strength of body, mind and spirit to ride out openly against the Nine." Elrond replied, his face pale and serious.  
"Then _why_, Elrond - in the name of all things sacred - have you sent _Glorfindel_!" Gandalf demanded, his bushy eyebrows and beard bristling.  
"Oh, I...well, he is a fine warrior and often underestimated..." Elrond retorted irritably.  
At this point Gandalf mumbled something that might have been _'a fine ponce', _but Steve couldn't be sure. With that, the old man nodded to Elrond in farewell, and seemed about to depart, until he stopped short, apparently staring at something on the table.  
"Is that...?" He whispered, his eyes intent, "Oh, I say."  
"Elladan. You know what to do." Elrond mumbled wearily, rolling his eyes.  
Elladan, quite his perky self once more, bounded at once to his feet and placed himself firmly in front of Steve, his arms outstretched, apparently shielding him against something. Ducking in order to see past the zealous Elf, Steve was greeted by a most unlikely spectacle - Gandalf the Grey, plunging his entire face into Elrond's bowl of tomato soup, slurping and sucking nastily, and deluging his beard and robes (not to mention a distinctly moody Lord Elrond) in the process. Having drained the bowl with alarming speed, he proceeded to seize Elrohir's portion and, with all pretence at etiquette having been abandoned, simply raised and tilted the bowl and sluiced the crimson contents into his open mouth.  
"Sweet nectar!" He hissed alarmingly between gulps, spraying the company with droplets of soup.  
"Would you care for a bread roll?" Elrond offered pointedly.  
"Oh." The old man muttered, coming back to himself with a start and suddenly resuming his dignified stance, his crimson-dyed beard dripping onto the gazebo floor. "Why...no thankyou, Lord Elrond. I...I do beg your pardon...about the soup. It's my favourite, you know."  
And with that, Gandalf nodded curtly to each of them in turn (causing a particularly large globule of soup to drip from the end of his hooked nose onto Elrond's head), coughed awkwardly, and made his way back up towards the Halls of Imladris. Steve stared after him in dismay.  
"I call it _rude_, apart from anything..." Elladan sniffed, returning to his seat.  
"Wizards." Elrond groaned long-sufferingly, dabbing at his face with a napkin. "Anyway; second course, anyone?"


	4. Moonbeams and Mayhem

A/N - I'd like to thank Kiricat for her wonderful review! It means a lot! This chapter's dedicated to you!  
Also, if anyone else at all is reading, please give me some feedback even if it's only a few words. Thanks!

Chapter Four - Moonbeams and Mayhem

Golden rays dappled the soft shade of the balcony where Steve had taken to secluding himself. It was not that he was unsociable by nature; quite the opposite - the lack of company was driving him slowly insane. However, it was a small price to pay in order to avoid the attention of certain members of the Rivendell community. Elladan had continued to hound him, and had been pushing rose petals, scraps of rather bad poetry, and even lacy Elvish undergarments under Steve's door on a regular basis. And on one truly distressing occasion, Steve had returned to his chambers to find his door wrenched from its hinges, and the grinning Elven Prince sprawled upon his bed, entirely naked but for a strategically placed frog. Steve shivered at the memory. Although he himself was more than a little mentally scarred by the experience, he supposed it was nothing compared to what the poor frog had gone through. Seriously though, that Elf had issues. And he wasn't the only one. Almost all the males of Rivendell were paying Steve an unusual amount of attention; gawping at him wherever he went, and trampling over each other in their haste to hold doors open for him, and cast their richly embroidered cloaks at his feet to save him walking through a puddle. The people back home had always stared at him too, but for quite different reasons. They had never been so eager to perform social niceties, and shower him with sugary compliments; they had not hung upon his every word, or followed his every gesture as these folk did. They had not gaped at him with a mixture of awe and longing, but with horror, disdain and mockery. For years Steve had yearned for this kind of male attention - would have coined his very soul for it - but now that it was his, he felt only awkward and isolated. He had no idea how to respond to their smiles and compliments, what to say or do, or how to behave under the constant scrutiny of so many eyes. More to the point, he had had no idea how to politely refuse Lord Elrond's invitation to accompany him for a carpentry session. As a result, he had been forced to spend a weary morning pretending to be impressed as the Elven Lord hammered nails ineptly into a rather terrifying object which was allegedly an ornate spice-rack, but more closely resembled a squashed and splintering wart-hog with a most unfortunate case of leprosy. If this wasn't bad enough, Steve had had Elrond's murky advances to endure. Whoever could have guessed that a hobby as seemingly innocent as carpentry could hold so many opportunities for shameless sexual innuendo? By lunchtime, Steve didn't ever want to hear the words hammer, nail, wood, shaft, screw, or _chisel _ever again (that last one really had to be witnessed to be fully appreciated). Thankfully, however, he had managed to escape afterwards, and had spent the rest of the day upon his secluded balcony, pondering his unhappy situation as Rivendell glowed on regardless, a languid green beneath the amber autumn sun.

At that moment, there came a sudden rustling from behind him. Steve turned to investigate with feline reflexes, rising a little in his seat in case a sudden getaway proved necessary. He was quite taken aback by what met his gaze: a tall, slender man in a long green cloak, his dark hair peppered with grey and hanging limp and distinctly greasy across his ruggedly handsome face. Judging from his unwashed state and notable lack of comedy ears, Steve guessed that before him stood not an Elf, but a mortal man. The stranger sketched a sudden bow, seeming momentarily quite as alarmed as Steve was.

"Your pardon, Lady," he spluttered, with a watery smile. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I...I thought no others knew of this place."

"That is quite all right, sir." Steve replied, at a loss. The stranger strode forward and slumped heavily upon Steve's bench without being invited, looking sullen and distracted. As he did so, Steve noted the unusual click of the man's footwear on the stone floor, and lowering his eyes, he realised that the stranger was sporting brown open-toed sandals. Steve's nose wrinkled a little in distaste, but he didn't like to comment.

"The folk of Rivendell can be so tiresome and mean," the man sighed, seeming barely aware of Steve's presence. "With all their talk of war and hardship...and killing. 'Down with the Dark Tower!', they say, and 'Death to the Orc!' But I say, why can't we all live in harmony, running free with the mighty bear? Flying with the mighty eagle? Swimming with the mighty prawn? Just imagine it! Elves and Men and Orcs and Hobbits and Dwarves all holding hands, united under a banner of peace and love and cuddles. Well, maybe not Dwarves, they smell so. But you get the idea. The Rainbow will save us all, my child, the Rainbow will save us all...'

"Once again, Aragorn, you turn a perfectly happy occasion into a simpering hippie pansy-fest!" Came a sudden voice from behind them. Steve turned, and beheld a most curious sight. A tall, blond male Elf with a startlingly pretty face and a somewhat vacant expression stood before them. Accompanying him was the Lady Arwen - at least, Steve decided it was _probably _the Lady Arwen. It wasn't very easy to tell, as her upper body had somehow been stuffed into a straight-jacket and her face tightly encased in a faintly comical muzzle. She could only really be identified by the glint of madness in her eyes. She was strapped to a makeshift sort of wooden wheelchair (judging from the splinters, and ominous creaking noises, one of Lord Elrond's creations) steered by the pristine golden-haired Elf. However, more intriguing still was the aforementioned male Elf's most outlandish choice of headgear.

"Glorfindel. Are you wearing a _bonnet_?" Aragorn demanded, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Aragorn. Have _you _been using your hair to clean the frying-pans again?" The Elf retorted snappily. 'Isn't it nearly time for your annual bath? And for your information, I am in fact wearing a new-wave lace-trimmed Elvish Summer sun-visor!"

"My mistake," Aragorn replied, grinning. His face fell, however, as his gaze dropped to Arwen. "What are you doing with my dear little Featherduster?"

"Your 'dear little Featherduster' was caught trying to skewer Lord Erestor with a pitchfork. I suspect her father would have been more lenient with her had it been the first time it's happened." Glorfindel declared with a withering glare at the now squirming Lady Arwen.

"Ah, my sweet dove. What have they done to you?" Aragorn murmured softly, brushing his grubby fingers against Arwen's simmering cheek. "Ah, my Undomiel. Moonshine to my night; string to my harp; strap to my sandal. These barbaric folk couldn't possibly understand you," he looked up at Glorfindel, ignoring the muffled hisses and growls emanating from Arwen's muzzle. "She needs only love; only love and understanding."

"Oh, good grief, that's what you said about the _Orcs_!" Glorfindel spat, with his hands on his hips. "Remember the spectacle you made of yourself at the Battle of the Troll Fells last Spring? Handing out anti-violence pamphlets and complimentary jam tarts to the forces of Mordor! And the less said about your campfire songs the better! Honestly, I've never been so embarrassed in all my life..."

"I wasn't the one wearing a skirt," Aragorn mumbled moodily.

"A _sarong_, Aragorn! A neo-Sindarin multi-terrain combat sarong! And thank Eru you _weren't _wearing one, with those hips!"

"What did you come here for, Glorfindel?" Aragorn asked wearily, his hand straying defensively to his hips.

"Merely to deposit her," the Elf gave Arwen's frail-looking wheelchair a small shove. "And to inform you that Lord Elrond will be holding a frightfully important meeting tomorrow and you're to be there, probably under pain of carpentry."

"Oh lorks, what's he flapping about this time? Not the squirrels again?" 

"How should I know. Although rumour has it Legolas of the woodland realm will be putting in an appearance. Ha! Now there's a lavendar-scented nancy if ever I saw one!" Glorfindel declared, tugging his bonnet - or rather, his new-wave lace-trimmed Elvish Summer sun-visor - into a more jaunty angle.

"Indeed," said Aragorn, investing the word with a wealth of irony. Glorfindel made a huffing noise, turned on his heel and began to leave. His exit was hampered slightly by a number of low-hanging branches getting caught in the trimming of his bonnet. He tore himself free, barking a whole host of Elvish expletives in the process, and finally flounced grumbling out of sight.

"I know how to cheer you up, dumpling!" Aragorn cried genially, patting Arwen's arm. He was seemingly impervious to her twitches and growls, and her furiously scarlet face; but on the other hand, he hadn't been foolish enough to remove her muzzle.

To Steve's - and apparently, Arwen's - complete horror, Aragorn suddenly produced a jangling tambourine from the folds of his cloak and waved it at Arwen with a flourish. He launched without warning into a rather disturbing musical number, which Steve soon gathered to be called 'Just Ask the Moonbeams'. It was all tree-hugging hogwash of the highest order, complete with a sickeningly sing-a-long chorus and enough botanical metaphors to upset anyone. His singing was only marginally better than Elladan's, and if anything his lyrics were worse. Arwen reeled about in her seat, groaning, but entirely powerless to escape. Steve on the other hand, after his initial terror had worn off, simply leapt to his feet and ran, barely pausing to consider whether his sudden departure might be considered rude. He didn't slow his pace until the echoes of Aragorn's tambourine faded into silence. On the way back to his chambers he was obliged to crouch amid some undergrowth in order to avoid Elladan, but his walk was otherwise uneventful. He sat at last upon his bed, wondering uselessly why every last inhabitant of Rivendell was criminally insane, and resolving once and for all that he must be rid of the place, one way or another.

---

Tune in next chapter and witness the Council of Elrond! oO


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